“That father was drownded in?” said Em’ly. “No. Not that one. I never see that boat.”

“Nor him?” I asked her.

Little Em’ly shook her head. “Not to remember!”

Here was a coincidence! I immediately went into an explanation how I had never seen my own father; and how my mother and I had always lived by ourselves in the happiest state imaginable, and lived so then, and always meant to live so; and how my father’s grave was in the churchyard near our house, and shaded by a tree, beneath the boughs of which I had walked and heard the birds sing many a pleasant morning. But there were some differences between Em’ly’s orphanhood and mine, it appeared. She had lost her mother before her father; and where her father’s grave was no one knew, except that it was somewhere in the depths of the sea.

“Besides,” said Em’ly, as she looked about for shells and pebbles, “your father was a gentleman and your mother is a lady; and my father was a fisherman and my mother was a fisherman’s daughter, and my Uncle Dan is a fisherman.”

“Dan is Mr. Peggotty, is he?” said I.

“Uncle Dan—yonder,” answered Em’ly, nodding at the boathouse.

“Yes. I mean him. He must be very good, I should think?”

“Good?” said Em’ly. “If I was ever to be a lady, I’d give him a sky-blue coat with diamond buttons, nankeen trousers, a red velvet waistcoat, a cocked hat, a large gold watch, a silver pipe, and a box of money.”

I said I had no doubt that Mr. Peggotty well deserved these treasures. I must acknowledge that I felt it difficult to picture him quite at his ease in the raiment proposed for him by his grateful little niece, and that I was particularly doubtful of the policy of the cocked hat; but I kept these sentiments to myself.

Little Em’ly had stopped and looked up at the sky in her enumeration of these articles, as if they were a glorious vision. We went on again, picking up shells and pebbles.

“You would like to be a lady?” I said.

Emily looked at me, and laughed and nodded “yes.”

“I should like it very much. We would all be gentlefolks together, then. Me, and Uncle, and Ham, and Mrs. Gummidge. We wouldn’t mind then, when there come stormy weather.—Not for our own sakes, I mean. We would for the poor fishermen’s, to be sure, and we’d help ’em with money when they come to any hurt.”

This seemed to me to be a very satisfactory, and therefore not at all improbable picture. I expressed my pleasure in the contemplation of it, and little Em’ly was emboldened to say, shyly—

“Don’t you think you are afraid of the sea, now?”

It was quiet enough to reassure me, but I have no doubt if I had seen a moderately large wave come tumbling in, I should have taken to my heels, with an awful recollection of her drowned relations. However, I said “No,” and I added, “You don’t seem to be, either, though you say you are,”—for she was walking much too near the brink of a sort of old jetty or wooden causeway we had strolled upon, and I was afraid of her falling over.